Blood
by Alfie Bibbit
Summary: Van Helsing and Carl are sent to Ireland to help a family sabotage a demon's resurrection and save their village and their kin.
1. A New Assignment

_Hello again._ As you can see i'm back with another little story. This time it's longer, and has an actual plot, so forgive me if it's a bit, well all over the place, i'm not so good with plots : ) I saw Van Helsing when it came out, and i thought it was hilarious, possibly for all the wrong reasons. I thought Stephen Sommers wasted some good characters, and took it upon myself to play with them a little. Hope you enjoy it. Thank you, Nic.

Chapter One

His horse stopped as they rode up to the bridge of the river border of the town, tossing his head and whining. The town was small and dark, even in the summer morning, as if something unnatural lingered over it. The circle of houses on the edge seemed abandoned. Shutters of windows hung haphazardly from their hinges, and a few of the doors had been splintered, as if they had been forcefully kicked in. One building was now but a charred shell, it's hollowed, paneless windows revealing an uninhabited, seared interior. Carl began to think his assumption of a harmless, charming Irish village might have been nothing more than wishful thinking.

Ahead of him, Van Helsing demounted his horse, and pulled it reluctantly through the main street. The highly stacked shack houses bent over the dirt road, many had fallen into disrepair or abandoned. At the end of the lane, a small inn was nestled into the row of quarters. A slight, cracked stone basin was set in front of the inn doorway. The fountains shoot that rose out of the centre was matted with green moss and no water issued from the spout. Carl tied his horse to a wooden stake in the ground, and turned to the dishevelled, rundown inn. Van Helsing stepped up and broodingly he watched the inn's tattered signboard dangle arbitrarily, creaking in the bitter wind.

"An Dubh Uain." He read aloud. Under the handpainted text was a weather-beaten painting of a black lamb.

"This is the place." Van Helsing muttered uneasily.

The windows were boarded up, and a faint glow of candlelight seeped through the cracks in to aging wood. The inn itself did not seem very big, but the building loomed over, casting a great shadow over the square. Two further floors were stacked onto of the inn, and the wooden facet of the biulding was beginning to rot away, it's long beams flaking age old paint. Black streaks of carbon stains licked up on the wall above the first floor windows, inplying that the building had not only been scarred by age, but also by fire and disaster.

Carl shivered at the sight of it, and again began to wonder how he had let himself get dragged into this trip in the first place.

†

He strode down the long winding staircase, it's cracked, age worn walls shrouded by the outlying darkness a single candle warrants. Only half listening to what the red robed man beside him was saying, he nodded, though he was not wholly sure what he was assenting. He had the essentials of it, and now the cardinal was probably updating him on the generally dreary goings on of the Abbey.

They reached the end of the dim, dank stairway, and walked into the warm orange glow of a large open room. It was bustling with life, as hundreds of people worked at benches and tables, tools and instruments rumbling. A constant cloud smoke hovered above, and every so often, the sounds small explosions echoed through the room, accompanied by a brief burst of flaming sparks.

He stood and looked over the scene with fondness; it was a sight he had not known he missed.

He approached a long, untidy workbench at the very back of the room.

It was laden with bits of dissected weaponry, and long white scrolls with holes burned through them. A small beaker of luminous blue fluid bubbled hazardously over a large candle, and a pile of nuts, bolts and other pieces of scrap metal sat precariously atop of a swaying pile of leather bound books. In the middle of it all, a smallish figure, clad in a well-worn habit bent over the table, muttering to himself, sparks flying out around him. He dropped his blowtorch, momentarily setting fire to his thick Hessian sleeve, and swore irately.

"Damn it!"

Van Helsing stepped up behind him. "What have I told you about cursing?"

Carl turned around, startled by the familiar voice. His stared for a moment, the magnifying device he wore strapped to his head enlarging his blue eyes like a bug. Carl pulled off the gadget and beamed at the sight of his friend.

"Van Helsing! Kind of you to stop by. Here on business I presume? Some dreadful new monster to be dealt with?"

"Something like that."

"Well don't think you'll be enlisting my aid this time! I had quite enough 'adventure' in Transylvania, and I've no desire to repeat the experience!"

"It wasn't all bad Carl." Started Van Helsing.

"Easy for you to say, you're the infamous monster hunter here!" He muttered, fidgeting about his bench. "Vampires, werewolves."

"Not to mention peasant girls." He shot a roguish glance at Carl.

Carl looked at them in disgruntled offence, turning back to his work in a sulk.

"Carl, -", Van Helsing started apologetically, sighing as he was reminded of Carl's fragile and sensitive nature.

"No!" He interjected brusquely. "Quite aright. After all, I am here only for your amusement! It's not as if I'm a genius inventor or anything like that. I live only so that my exploits may serve your pleasure!"

Van Helsing stood behind him, trying desperately and somewhat in vain, not to laugh at Carl's thin-skinned melodramatics.

Giving up on comforting him, Van Helsing changed the subject.

"So, Cardinal Jinette tells me you have a new creation."

Carl turned, perking up a little, but still he looked hurt, making sure he milked his rueful sympathies.

"Yes, it's just over here actually." He turned and heaved a heavy gun, shaped like a small, highly mechanical looking cannon from the bench behind him.

"It's just a prototype, but it's coming along nicely. One of my best designs yet!"

Van Helsing smiled as Carl briefly flashed a playful grin.

"There are some other things I wanted to show you, now you mention it." He said, dumping the large, technological weapon into Van Helsing's arms, who, despite his strength, almost dropped it in surprise. Carl was now lost in a huge chest, overflowing with unfinished bits and pieces, with only his legs visible, splaying out as he stretched into the box.

Quickly realising that this demonstration could go on for many hours, knowing Carl, Van Helsing again started to change the subject.

"Err... Carl, perhaps this isn't the best time for….Carl?"

Nevertheless, Carl was still wedged head first in his box of tricks, and it sounded as if he had already begun the exhibition, talking to himself enthusiastically.

Determined not to be drawn into another of his presentations, Van Helsing grabbed the back of Carl's habit, hauling him out of the trunk, almost raising the scrawny friar off the ground.

"Hmmm?"

"Not today." He said, and Carl's face fell like a disappointed child.

He set him down on his feet, and he turned and began to tidy his work away.

"If you're finished for tonight, I'd like to go somewhere where we can talk."

"Why?" Carl asked, turning slowly, with a hint of suspicion and slight panic in his voice. "If this is about one of your 'missions', then I'd rather not if you don't mind. My involvement will not extend outside of this abbey! Not that I had much choice in the matter last time." He muttered.

"Exactly. So why bother arguing?"

With that, Van Helsing strode out of the room, and Carl sighed. Realising this was a rhetorical question; he set down his work and scampered after him.

†

The corridors of the monastery were silent as he made his way up the shadowy passageways, desperately trying to keep up with Van Helsing, who was always sweeping around a corner ahead of him.

Arriving at the library and Van Helsing went to the small fireplace at the end of the long, high walled room and began trying to light it. This library was one of many in the Abbey, but this one did not have its door bolted, unlike the Order's library below the Cathedral. The room was lined floor to ceiling with old books, pious scriptures mostly, giving the room a musky smell. In the centre of the room was a strewn assortment of tables, many complete with inkwells and piles of scrolls.

Carl dragged a worn, deep armchair from one of the desks and lugged it to the end of the room, where Van Helsing already sat in front of the now flaming fireplace. Cautiously he sat down, watching Van Helsing intently.

"We're going to Ireland. The order has allocated us a new task."

Carl sprang up apprehensively. "'We'? 'Us'?!"

"Yes. We. Us. You and me."

"Me? Why?" He yelped.

"Why you're a mastermind Carl, you speak all kinds of languages, and you have a knack for solving little puzzles, as you displayed in Transylvania. You're a genius, or so you keep telling me."

"Well yes, but, but… I'm fairly unfamiliar with the Gaelic language, and besides, most of the Irish people speak English these days. You won't need a translator."

"What about all your other skills?"

"I suppose so. But I still don't understand why you need –"

Van Helsing interrupted impatiently.

"I'm not going to sit here all night begging you nicely. The Order bade you to join me."

"Why?!"

"Perhaps they were highly impressed at your achievements in Transylvania. Maybe they would like your expertise to be extended beyond the crypt of the Abbey more frequently. Most probably, it's purely a chance to get rid of you for a while! Frankly, I have no idea. At any rate, there's no point in arguing. Whether you desire to go or not, our passage to Ireland is already arranged. I'll come for you first thing tomorrow."

"Well," Carl sighed, defeated "what is it we're investigating?"

"Murders. Strange occurrences in the village. There's something uncanny at work there. Something strange enough to merit the attentions of the Order."

"The usual then…" Carl muttered gloomily.   
Van Helsing rose from his chair and headed out of the door. Before he reached his exit, he turned around and shot a glance at Carl.

"Be ready in the morning." He turned back to the door and strode out, his long leather coat sweeping behind him.

Carl gave a small whimper of dread and sunk into his chair. The slamming of the giant heavy door blew out the lantern as he went, and Carl uttered another stifled yelp of fright as the room was plunged into darkness.


	2. A Warm Welcome

Chapter Two

The next morning, before the sun had risen, Carl was awake. He crept down the back stairs of the abbey, absentmindedly picking at a loose thread on his worn, hand-me-down habit. He rubbed his face wearily; he had not slept most of the night, ever pondering the impending mission. He sighed. Van Helsing could tell him as much or as little as he liked, but his tenacity could not be swayed by any amount of questioning. He came to the end of the stairs, and the long corridor of the abbey wing was still in darkness, the thin windows that let in the dim, weak moonlight few and far between. He twisted around and reached into the small bag he had slung over his shoulder. He had very few possessions to his name, and not many were needed for the journey, so the bag was almost empty, save a journal and a tin containing a few provisions he had slipped out of the pantry. The big bags were waiting to be picked up from the laboratory, brimming with a cornucopia of complex and fearful weaponry. Pulling out a match, he lifted a lantern that hung over the archway of the stairwell and vainly attempted to strike the match on the cold damp wall. Giving up, he stuffed the unused match back into his sack, and started along the hallway, running his hand along the rough stone wall as a futile guide.

Nearing the end of the passage, he saw the cracks of the small office, adjacent to the laboratory were glowing, and warm candlelight seeped out from under the door. Seeing his mark, he left his wary position, clinging to the wall, and darted towards it, making the last few paces unguided. Reaching for the door handle, he gently pushed it ajar. Satisfied he was not about to receive a scolding for disturbing a morning's prayer, he stepped into the room and dropped his bag.

†

Sometime later, Van Helsing gaited through the doorway of the office.

He turned and tutted at the figure by the hearth, whose tousled strawberry-blond head was bent absorbedly over a hefty book, rested on his knees.

"Morning Carl." He called as he turned to warm his hands over the open fireplace.

However, the shape did not reply, and remained bowed over the volume, perfectly still, as though deep in thought.

"Carl? Are you alright?" he softly stepped over to the chair, and stood over him enquiringly.

"Carl!" Still not achieving any reaction, he yelled louder, and Carl moaned and jerked, rolling over onto his side in the deep wing chair. Squirming unconsciously until he was cosy, he fell back to sleep.

He stepped back, half amused and half impatiently frustrated, but unsurprised.

'Well, better not to let him get comfortable.' he thought, trying to justify his faintly cruel actions in waking his tired friend.

He stood behind the chair, and leant over him, take hold of either edge of the heavy open book on his knees. Then, as he moved back, he slammed the book closed with a bang, sending a thick cloud of dust up into the air.

Carl awoke with a violent yelp, his skinny limbs flailing as he jolted forward in shock. Composing himself, he glanced around the room in panic and waking confusion.

"Didn't you sleep last night?" Van Helsing asked.

Carl turned and brooded at him, before sighing and slumping back into his chair.

"No, actually I didn't. I was awake almost all night, worrying about this damn escapade you're dragging me on. And having to get up at the crack of dawn didn't help either. The sun isn't even up yet!"

"Everyone else gets up at this time you know! Breakfast is at half past five. They don't even set a place for you anymore! You're always up all night in the laboratory, you don't get up till late, and you never attend meals when they're set."

"Well I'm working for the good of mankind! I'm sure they won't mind me missing a supper a few times!" He rubbed his eyes and stretched up to flatten down his hair, pulling at it jadedly, causing it to flick out over his obtruding ears.

"Ready?" Carl recognized that this was not so much a question as a courteous command, but nevertheless he opened his mouth to protest.

However, unsurprisingly, Van Helsing was not looking for an answer, grabbing Carl by the hood and tossing him through the doorway. Carl turned to complain, but before he had the chance, Van Helsing flung his bag into his chest and started down the hallway.

†

Carl stumbled through the door of the cabin he and Van Helsing were sharing, swaying uneasily on his sea-legs.

"Rats!"

"What's wrong?" He asked, though not making any effort to sound vaguely concerned. Carl had a tendency to frighten himself by over-exaggerating.

"No. Rats! As in rodents. I went to find something to eat and there were rats in the storeroom!"

"Did you bring any food?" Van Helsing asked.

Carl rolled his eyes. "No. I didn't get that far. On account of the rats!"

"You fought vampires and werewolves and you're afraid of a few furry little animals?"

"Well I hardly battled them bare handed. And even if I had I'd still be terrified of them." Carl held, wobbling as the ship rocked and sliding onto the wooden chair at a desk in the corner. "Anyway that's not the point."

Van Helsing knew that Carl didn't really have a point, and was too tired to argue with him. At the desk, Carl pulled out a tattered map of Ireland and studied closely.

"Where do we get off?" he asked.

"There's a big port in Dublin. We'll most likely dock there."

"And how far is it to err…Moran from there?"

"About two days ride I'd guess. It's not far inland."

"Hmm. Nice, quaint Irish town. Hopefully it won't be as fearsome as Transylvania." Carl said in nervous hope, thinking aloud to convince himself of his own thoughts.

"Well the demons don't reign freely like they did in Transylvania. But if the Order were right about half the goings on there, I'd say there'll be plenty to keep us busy."

Carl stared absently out of the porthole, his eyes drowsily following the hypnotic rhythm of the waves that washed by the side of the ship. He turned from the window and collapsed on the unstable wooden bed frame that was pressed up to the wall of the small cabin below the deck.

"So, why exactly are we going to Ireland? You've managed to evade bestowing any details so far." He said to Van Helsing, who was laid on the bed beside the one she was sat on, staring up at the ceiling.

"I've told you pretty much all I was told myself. The village has seen six murders and three disappearances in the last month. All of the bodies appear to have been subjected to some ritualistic torture, but nothing that the Order recognises. Probably because, for some reason left to us to discover, the rituals haven't been completed. Many of the bodies were found in or around the area of a large abandoned house in the north of the town."

"So were do we start, when we get to Moran? What's first?"

"Cardinal Jinette instructed that we should meet a man, who will give us more information." He said, pulling off his hat and setting it down on a table next to his bed.

"Who?"

"I don't know. Cardinal Jinette said he would know us; we just have to find the inn first. We dock first thing tomorrow."

†

Ducking timidly behind Van Helsing, Carl shuffled into the dimly lit inn. They were greeted by suspicious stares and a gruff murmur of inaudible whispers echoing from the dark corners of the tavern. The landlord stood behind the bar, unhurriedly drying a tankard with a moth-eaten rag. His eyes were fixed on the two strangers as they crossed the unnervingly silent common room. Carl felt his skin crawl under the smouldering, distrustful eyes of the inn's inhabitants.

Van Helsing pulled up a stool at a small round table near the bar. Carl followed his lead, setting himself down beside him. He pulled a bulky bag onto the table, and began to rifle through it's contents. A little too openly, he pulled out a small, but lethal looking crossbow and set it on the table, studying it closely for any damage it may have sustained on the rough journey. Van Helsing shot Carl a harsh and suggesting look, as did the barman.

He scowled at Carl. "We'll have no trouble here son."

"Don't look for trouble and you won't get any." grunted Van Helsing, watching him obliquely.

"It's 'Brother' actually." Carl put in boldly.

The barman straightened up haughtily, like a cat trying to intimidate it's adversaries.

"We've no call for strangers here. We don't want outsiders bringing trouble into our village." He glanced down at Carl's bag of weaponry warily.

"You'd better watch yourselves."

Van Helsing stood up sharply, leaning over the bar, coming face to face with the landlord.

"Really? I was just about to say the same about you."

Just in time, the tensely hostile moment was interrupted by the presence of a man, stepping up to the bar.

"Perhaps this is a good a time as any to introduce myself. Mr. Van Helsing I assume?"

Van Helsing turned to the man, looked him over for a second, then nodded. He looked quite young, although possibly only because he was contrasted so drastically with the rough, grey aged population of the bar. However his deep, emerald green eyes gave a different impression. He had light brown hair that scattered out in jagged tresses around the nape of his neck.

"Perhaps we should go somewhere a little less...er…would you like to follow me sir?"

The man set down some coins on the bar and began to walk up the narrow stairway at the side of the tavern. Van Helsing nodded to Carl over his shoulder, who gathered up the bags and started after Van Helsing.

On entering the small, dank room at the top of the staircase, the man lit some candles and stood by the grimy casement. Carl stood in the corner apprehensively peering out from behind Van Helsing's soaring figure.

"Well?" Van Helsing ordered. "You are the contact we were told about by Order aren't you?"

The man turned and nodded, offering his hand to Van Helsing as he introduced himself.

"Pádraig Heany." Shaking Van Helsing's averse hand, Pádraig sat himself on the edge a taut camp bed beneath the window.

Van Helsing received his gesture to do likewise, and sat down on a wooden stool opposite him.

He didn't wait for the man to speak again, and lunged straight to the point.

"So what are we doing here?"

"We're very grateful for your help Sir. We haven't had to involve the Order in our business for a long time, but regrettably that occasion has arrived. We appreciate-" Catching the intolerant look on Van Helsing's demanding face, Pádraig cut the prologue short.

"What has the Order told you?"

"Just the basics. Murders. Disappearances. Ritualistic practices. Possibly some kind of demonic ceremony. Although they're not sure what for. Irish myth isn't their speciality you understand. I think they were hoping you could fill us in."

Pádraig nodded. He took at deep breath and at length he spoke.

"It's a resurrection ceremony."

"Resurrection of what?" Carl enquired fretfully, afraid of the answer.

"Dorchadas." Pádraig replied.


	3. A Sorrowful Tale

Afternoon. I hope you're enjoying the story so far. No action in this chapter, sorry! Just a bit of plot development as such. I'm not good with plots. Sincere thanks for the reviews so far. Most encouraging and very very much appriciated. OK i'll let you get on with it. Thanks for reading, any comments would be very welcome if you wouldn't mind. Thanks again. Nic.

Chapter Three

Pádraig sat back and sighed. Van Helsing could tell he was settling himself for what could be a long and unpleasant story.

"Dorchadas is a demon." Pádraig began. "As of the moment, a formless demon; a malicious spirit. He was once a man, if you could call him that. He lived in this very village, many long years ago. Antony Kerrigan was as evil then as he is now. He was a murderer. He had taken the lives of many young women and girls before the villagers decided to rally together and put a stop to his debauchery. Even after being beaten to death, his bloodlust was not satisfied, and it is said that he gave his soul the devil in exchange for a body, so that he could seek revenge on the villages that killed him. And so he was resurrected, taking a new name. Dorchadas; the Gaelic for 'Darkness'. For years he reigned terror on the village, killing to feed his unholy form, and sometimes just because he enjoyed it. But even then, he had one fearful adversary, in a local demon slayer named Seamus Murphy. Seamus was the heir of the Murphy family, who had been destined to protect the village for as long as any local history books record. Seamus had finally found a way to bring down Dorchadas, and he tracked him down to a dilapidated old house at the edge of the village. There Seamus defeated Dorchadas, destroying his physical and weakened him enough to banish his spirit into purgatory. But, it was not permanganate. Years later, Seamus discovered that Dorchadas could be resurrected. He had built up a following of minions, who had scattered on his destruction that could prepare it. The conditions had to be akin to those on the night of his death. The lunar conditions were most important, and luckily for us, quite specific. The ceremony could only take place under a crescent moon, when the planets are aligned in a specific order. But the key to the ceremony was an exchange of blood; the blood of the one who slew him. Believing it the only way to prevent his blood being attained and thus ensuring that Dorchadas was never resurrected, Seamus took his own life."

"But these things are never that simple." Van Helsing muttered, almost to himself.

"Indeed." Pádraig sighed.

"The blood needed for the ceremony was not just contained in Seamus, but in all those in his bloodline; children and grandchildren included."

"And does Seamus have any children? Or did he?" Van Helsing asked.

"He had a son, Feargal, who took his father's place as slayer after his death. He knew well the curse that hovered over their progeny, discovering the true conditions and the threat to his family after his father's suicide.

He lived with his wife, her brother, and his children. His brother-in-law, Cìan, joined him in his war against the evils that beset their village. One day, Fergal's wife Siobhan became pregnant. Realising the huge danger the child would be in if it was recognised as of the Murphy lineage, Siobhan went away with a family friend. Returning over a year later, the newborn infant was taken to be the child of the friend, who's wife, it appeared, had died during childbirth, and it would never be known who the child's true parents were. That child is the last of the line now."

"What happened to the rest of the family?" requested Van Helsing, sat listening intently to Pádraig's tale.

"Well unfortunately, the aforementioned circumstances arose about 10 years ago. It began with disappearances, demons collecting offerings for their

diluted master."

"And you think that's what happening here? The murders?"

"Yes. Usually, the lunar conditions for the resurgence would only occur once every half-century. But it seems there is something of a 'leap year' present. This is the second time it has come to pass in around ten years."

"And what happened the last time?" Van Helsing was not anticipating an straightforward, or reassuring, answer.

"Well Feargal realised what was afoot, and set about ensuring his family were removed to a safe place. But it seemed that Dorchadas' underlings were one step ahead, and the night before they were due to leave, two of his cretins raided their home. Cian convinced Feargal to flee, as he was technically the only blood relation to Seamus Murphy, and he was the only one that risked being a tool in Dorchadas' successful resurrection. Reluctantly, Feargal escaped, knowing that he left his family in mortal danger. His wife and Cian's family were abducted and taken to the house where the resurrection was due to commence.

The ceremony began, and the demons took Cian's son Tomas and slit his throat, spilling his blood over the spot where their master had been slain. However, this did not produce the desired results, and the demons realised that none of the family were related to Seamus by blood. In their rage they murdered them brutally. Feargal had followed them up to the house, and witnessing this horrific scene, his was blinded by grief and wrath. Somewhat foolishly he revealed himself, making an unprepared last-ditch attempt to defeat the demons. But he was outnumbered, and understanding what would ensue if they were able to capture him, he followed his father's instance, and threw himself from the cliffs behind the house."

"Under the impression that that would be the end of it, with the child still hidden." Van Helsing pondered, mulling over the intense account he had just heard. "And no one knows the Murphys had a child?"

"There was some speculation amongst the villagers, about Siobhan going away. Some believe she may have had a child outside of her marriage to Feargal. Or that the child died after it's birth."

"You're sure there are no more, no more relatives?"

"Yes. Certain. Six in the family, six headstones in the churchyard."

"And where is the child now?" Van Helsing demanded.

"She is in my keeping, as she has been since Feargal passed her to me after her birth, and I swore to care for and protect her, all the while keeping her identity a secret. I'm her godfather."

†

It was dark now, and a grey shroud of mist veiled the black night sky as Pádraig lead them down a long narrow dirt lane alongside the river boundary of the town.

Carl shuddered, not so much from the clinging damp, but the dread of this haunting town that had been exacerbated a good deal by Pádraig's frightening and sorrowful tale.

A faint light began to come into view in the distance. A lone glowing window echoed warm candlelight over the outstretching fields of largely dead and barren turf. From the outside, the house was much like the houses they had seen in town; shabby, dishevelled and desolate, though much larger. It appeared to have once been a farm house, with a barn to one side and many surrounding fields, running up to the winding river that stretched past the house and through a thick woodland on the horizon.

Pádraig pushed open the dilapidated wooden door, and strode into the darkness of the lounge. He took the lantern he had been carrying and lit the hearth with it. The room was flooded with a rush of warm firelight, revealing a sparse but homely room. Two long battered couches where set either side of the fireplace, with a small wooden table in front of it. In the back corner of the room, barely visible as the light faded, there was a desk, piled high with scrolls and dusty books. Carl smiled as it reminded him fairly of his own workbench at the abbey.

Three abundant bookcases of varying shapes and sizes were dotted about the room, and the paltry oil lamps strewn about were the only thing that adorned the walls, save a photograph.

They gathered around the fire, and Pádraig went to fetch ale for himself and his guests. Van Helsing rose to inspect the portrait above the hearth. It showed a group of people sat beside a river. Two men and a woman were sitting down on the meadow, while another young man was playfully chasing three giggling children across the bottom of the picture. It was a natural scene, a beautiful un-posed glimpse of a loving family. Van Helsing did not have to ask who they were.

He felt a wrench of hurt at the sight, not only for the tragic family in the picture. He contemplated the haunting feeling of loss and uncertainty, the thought that once he may have had a family, and the even more painful notion that he might never find out.

His moment of reflection was broken as Pádraig returned from the store, and, setting a pitcher of ale on the table, stepped up beside him.

He stared at the picture, as he had doubtlessly done innumerable times before, and at length he spoke.

"I know it's perhaps a bit risky, having that up in the current circumstances, but…" He trailed off. Van Helsing nodded understandingly, and did not press him to finish.

Behind them, Carl jumped in frightened surprise as a figure appeared like a ghost in the dark kitchen doorway.

Van Helsing turned and watched as the shape timidly edged forward into the light of the room.

She was young, just a teenager. Her dark eyes flickered behind the short brown hair pulled over her face, shifting nervously between the men and the floor.

"Mr. Van Helsing, this is Roan." He paused as Van Helsing looked over the girl. "Roan Murphy."

†

They sat together for hours talking, without mention of the perilous task at hand. Roan didn't appear to be much of a talker, but no one could blame her. Although as the conversation continued, she began to seem more secure around the strangers, and was clearly grateful of their help.

An outlying clock chimed, it was eleven o'clock. Setting down a near-empty tankard of Irish ale, Van Helsing rose.

"Its getting late, I suppose we better get some sleep. We have a lot to be getting on with."

An discomfited air crept over the room, at the first mention of their mission; even though it was constantly weighing on all their minds, they had so far managed to escape into ordinary, affable conversation without discussing the grave matter.

"I'll show you your room." Pádraig offered, starting up the tapered set of steps, Van Helsing following him.

Carl, however, was already half asleep on the couch, and failed to notice that Van Helsing had left to go to bed.

Roan leant across closer to him. "Sir? I think everyone is …" She said, grasping his shoulder and shaking him gently.

Carl awoke, his tired eyes wide and bewildered. He sat forward, wobbling uneasily.

"I was just. ..I'm not..err..urh." He flopped back onto the couch, clamping his hand over his head.

"I think that ale's hit you a bit hasn't it?" she smiled.

"What? No... I er..hmm?"

"Come on sir, Mr. Van Helsing's already gone off up." She stood up, sliding her arm under Carl's and pulling him to his unsteady feet. He staggered forward, and Roan grabbed him around his waist, steadying him as he stumbled.

She pulled him to the top of the stairs, where Pádraig and Van Helsing were taking covers from a trunk on the landing. Roan propped Carl against the wall, and Van Helsing smiled at her for her serenity.

"Carl has a habit of falling asleep inappropriately. You have more patience with him than I." Roan bent and took some blankets and led Carl to his room.

She turned to Pádraig and smiled impishly.

"So-òlta." She said, nodding towards Carl's door, before disappearing into her own.

Van Helsing turned to Pádraig with an questioning look. Seeing he was inquiring for a translation, Pádraig smiled.

"Easily drunk."


	4. A Day in the Field

_Hello anyone who is good enough to take time to read my story. Another chapter already. It seems once i get going with this i cant stop, which you will see in this chapter. This part was originally about 500 words shorter than the others, so i thought it a good oppotunity to stick in a bit of action to tide you over till the next chapter. However i got a bit carried away and it ended up about 500 words longer than the other chapters. So apologies for the length. Sincere thanks again for the kind reviews. And special thanks to Squeekie for the good sugestions. Enjoy. _

Carl stepped quietly downstairs, peering over the banister.

Pádraig, Roan and Van Helsing were sat around the long wooden table at the back of the main room eating what appeared to be breakfast. Glancing at the dusty clock on the wall, he realised it was probably lunch. He sheepishly slunk over and joined them.

Roan spotted him, and smiled weakly. "Dia duit ar maidin, sir. We were getting worried, we thought we'd have to come and drag you up."

"Late night Carl?" Van Helsing teased.

"Erm. I'm not sure.." He groaned, rubbing his head.

"You don't really have a head for strong drink, do you Brother?" Pádraig smiled.

"I don't suppose you remember falling asleep down here and being practically carried to bed by Roan?"

Carl looked up in disbelief, his face burning red with embarrassment. He turned to Roan, looking at her with awkwardly apologetic eyes.

To Carl's relief, Van Helsing broke the uncomfortable silence.

"So, what's the plan?"

"What do you need to know? If you're wanting to go look for clues, what mystery is it we're trying to solve?"

"You're sure that these disappearances, these murders, are to do with Dorchadas?"

"It's happening exactly how it did ten years ago. His followers are killing to provide for their chief, to grant him power for his return."

"Well I suppose it would be a good idea to prevent him from gaining anymore strength than he already possesses." Carl put in.

Van Helsing nodded, thinking. "How many are there? How many 'minions'?"

"It's difficult to be certain. Most never show themselves openly. We do know that there are at least two demons gathering the offerings, that we know of. They are Dorchadas' second in command, if you will. They are the vessels."

"Who are they, and more importantly, how do we kill them?"

Roan dropped a thick, dusty book on the table in front of him and opened it.

"Ìobairt and Gortaìm?" Van Helsing said, reading the page aloud.

"Sacrifice and Pain." Roan translated. "They themselves are a lot older than Dorchadas, but not nearly as powerful. Which is probably why the followed him. Back from hell."

"They are in a demonic body, but they can transform into a more human figure, so as not to be noticed when they hunt."

"Well, demons can be exorcised. We can expel them in the name of God." Carl suggested.

"God?" Roan looked up. "God will not help us now." She said quietly.

"Their demon bodies are much stronger than their human bodies. We have a better chance of destroying them while they are in human form. The difficulty will be finding them."

"How long is it since they last took an offering?" Van Helsing asked.

"Two weeks. I'd say they will be on the hunt again very soon."

"They come at night, all the victims have been taken from the west of the village so far, over in Linehan road, close to their lair." Roan said.

"Is there any way we can predict the next victim? Has their been any uniformity in the victims they've chosen?"

"Not that we know of." Pádraig shook his head. "Men, Women and children. More young teenagers than I'd guess was chance. All being about Roan's age. Though knowing his nature in life I'd not be much surprised at that twisted favouritism." Pádraig looked slowly across at Roan. "Perhaps they've got more of an idea about their required 'blood' than we'd hoped. They've got smarts enough to know, if there had been a Murphy child, they would be about that age."

"All from roughly the same area too." Roan added. "But for that reason, many of the people close by have fled, so it may be that they will have to look further a-field for their prey."

"Well we'd better start tonight." Van Helsing said firmly. "We'll go down into the town, and keep an eye out for anyone suspicious, anyone you don't recognise as a villager. Until then, I would like to see the bodies of the victims, see if we can decipher anything more from that. Are there any left unburied?" He asked, turning to Pádraig.

"Aye, a couple. Some of families already fled. Some were left where they lay, the villagers to afraid move them."

"Where are the corpses now?"

"They were moved to an old barn near by a derelict farm. They're waitin' to be burned."

Van Helsing stood up and turned from the table.

"Carl, arrange some artillery for our friends."

†

Van Helsing rattled the splintering barn gates, but they had been bolted shut. To prevent the demons from disturbing the dead? Van Helsing thought, or to prevent the dead disturbing the village? Unfazed, he whipped out a small weapon with fierce saw-like edges from his belt, and it began to spin violently. With a flick of his wrist the circular blade ripped through the gate's catch in a burst of sparks and the high pitched roar of shredding metal.

Kicking the doors open, he stepped inside. That balmy, festering stench he knew all to well lurched toward him in a thick heavy wave, making him retch at the putrid smell. Pulling his bandana over his face from his throat, he glanced around the bare store and gestured for the others to enter. Despite the warm, rotting tang that hung the air it was cold inside. Shreds of chilled light from the grey afternoon sky stretched across the hay covered floor through the gaps in the barn's slatted walls, highlighting the many specks of dust that floated about them.

Roan pulled her over-sized cast-off jumper tighter about her and folded her arms around her chest.

She strained to see in the gloom and spotted Van Helsing stood by a hay stack in the corner. She took a glowing torch from her godfather and jogged over to see what he had found, although she already knew, and part of her wasn't so sure she wanted to see the mangled corpses again.

Little over a month ago she had been returning from school to the farm she shared with her father. Passing through the town square, a cry came from a young man running down the hill that overlooked the west of the village. Amongst his panting hysterics they managed to make out the basics of what the boy had found. A while later, a group of men returned to the square, the body of what looked like a young girl in the arms of the largest man. Onlookers hurried their children back into their houses as the men lay the limp figure down on the ground and gathered around it. Even the toughest men were shaking in horror at the sight.

The girl's throat had been slit wide open, so much so that the inner workings of her throat were plainly visible. The front of her dress was slashed, and although she was now wrapped in one of the men's jackets, the exposed part of her pale bare chest was cut with deep gashes, carved with precision to form symbols and letters. Her face, or what was left of it, was ashen, her lips cold blue. Her cheeks were adorned with similar lettering to those sliced into her chest. Perhaps the most gruesome sight was where her eyes had been brutally crossed out, leaving ugly, bloody welts that ran from her cheeks up to her forehead, the splintered bone of her sockets crumpled around the hollow where her pretty young eyes had been.

The men muttered uneasily, some uttering blessings for the dead, some tossing locals names between the group. There had been more than one young girl vanish of late, and it was difficult to identify which one this unfortunate child was.

The gathering of villagers debated what the core of her horrific death was, desperately seeking some explanation other than the one they all held in their minds, but they all knew what this meant. It was happening again.

†

Roan knelt down next to Van Helsing, who sat staring silently at the row of human shaped lumps laid out under a long sheet on the ground. He straightened up, and taking a deep breath he pulled the sheet back.

"Oh my God…" Carl gasped quietly behind them.

What he revealed was a heap of decaying bodies, some almost a month old. He leant over to take a closer look one of the fresher looking corpses.

Suddenly the barn doors swung open, and Van Helsing turned sharply.

"What're yer doin' in here?" The stout old man in the doorway scowled at the group, before his mistrustful stare fell upon Van Helsing. "You've no right comin' in here!"

"Mr. Henry-" Pádraig started, trying to appease the notoriously cantankerous farmer.

He turned and glared at the young man, his jowls quivering ferociously.

"You," He said, pointing his stubby finger. "Yer bringin' strange folk to our village. Up to no good. Yer trouble, you Heany. Yer as bad as them. Yer not right. An' that girl o'yers!" He turned to Roan, glowering. "She's just the same. S'no wonder yer associatin' with these strange folk!" He spotted the freshly uncovered pile they were currently inspecting, and his face flushed with anger. "And here yer are, disturbin' our dead! Have y'no respect lad?!"

"They're trying to help us." Said Pádraig through gritted teeth, clearly losing patience.

"I bet! I think you'd better leave son. All of you."

Van Helsing stood up. "According to Pádraig here, this is no one's lawful property. We'll be staying as long as we feel necessary, sir."

"Aye." Roan said quietly, glancing warily about the eerie barn. "And no longer."

"You're not welcome here. You wanna watch your back. You'll leave sharp if you know what's good for yer." With that he stormed out of the barn.

"Thank you for the advice, not the first time I've heard that since I've been here." Van Helsing sighed.

He leant over to continue examining the bodies when a shot flew past his head and crashed through the wooden wall behind him, a streak of light from the bullet hole falling on his long black coat.

He began to turn to face his attacker, his hands sliding into his coat to pull out a weapon, when a second bullet soared towards him, and he rolled across the straw covered floor behind a barrel.

Pádraig grabbed Roan and Carl and yanked them back into a nearby stall.

"I warned you!" Cried Henry, striding into the barn with a smoking rifle propped up in his arms. "You folks don't listen." He cocked the rifle and took aim at the barrel.

Van Helsing leapt up, dodging another bullet as it hit a haystack in an explosion of straw.

"Why doesn't he just shoot him?" Roan cried, exasperated.

"He's a monster hunter. Not a murderer." Carl said.

Van Helsing darted behind a thick wooden post and took out his blades. It was too dangerous to throw them, after all, he didn't want to kill him, just disarm him. He leapt out from behind the pole, waiting for the right second to spin his blades at the gun. The farmer lowered his gun to reload, and Van Helsing threw his blades toward it. But Henry moved, and cocking his gun he moved into the barn.

Van Helsing cursed. His blades were stuck in the floor on the other side of the barn. He certainly couldn't use his crossbow, he was stood directly in front of the others. It was too risky, even for as good a shot as himself.

Henry aimed at him, and he quickly rolled out of the way. The shot was fired, but it hit the roof, shattering the lead tiles and bringing wooden slats falling to the floor. Van Helsing looked up. Henry was sprawled on the floor, his lying gun feet away from him. Van Helsing's confusion vanished when he saw Roan stood over Henry, a thick wooden plank in her shaking hands.

Van Helsing half-smiled and nodded his thanks. He picked up the fallen gun and nudged the unconscious man with his foot.

"Good job. He won't be going anywhere for a while."

"True. But when he wakes up he'll be even more livid." Pádraig said, who despite the serious truth in his words, couldn't help but smile at the whole situation.

"Well we'll worry about that when the time comes. We've more important…and far more dangerous things than Mr. Henry to worry about."

Carl crept out of the stall. "What was his problem? Sometimes I just don't know why you bother with this job, it certainly doesn't earn you any gratitude!"

"I'm sorry, about him." Roan apologised. "There are some of us who appreciate your help."

Van Helsing nodded. "Don't worry. It's not the first time people have been less than thrilled at my presence. Pádraig." He called.

The slight man came to his side and nodded in response.

"Do you recognise these markings?" He said, pointing to some unusual scratches on the flesh of the cadaver.

"Aye. These ones are used in the transferring ritual, where the vessel gives the life it has taken over to the receiver."

"And what about these?" Van Helsing enquired, running a gloved finger over a set of different but similarly styled scars on another body next to him.

"Those are the markings that've been found on the younger victims."

"And what are they for?"

"The resurrection. I think the demons have been performing the blood letting ritual on youngsters that would be about the Murphy child's age, had there been one, trying to find the blood they need."  
"But if Murphy's wife had had a child with someone else, as the villagers say, the child wouldn't be of the same bloodline." Protested Carl.

"Aye." Said Pádraig. "But the window is approaching and they're getting desperate. They'll tear the whole village apart looking for a descendant of Seamus Murphy."


End file.
